


A liquor never brewed

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Punching out my dancelines [38]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Caranthir's External Taciturn Mien, Caranthir's Unending Inner Monologue, DWMP verse, F/M, Fem!Telchar - Freeform, Masturbation, Oh No There Is Only One Bed What Do, Sexy Brewing Convention Atmosphere, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 11:38:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8054833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: They both looked at the bed, and noted that there was only one of it.There was a pause. “I’ll sleep on the floor,” said Caranthir, knowing it was the noble thing to do and already resenting it. “That’s noble of you,” said Telchar, straight-faced.





	A liquor never brewed

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. This takes place before the final chapter of DWMP.

The brewer’s convention had gone late, and they only made it to the conference hotel long after dark. Then there was a malfunctioning keycard, and Caranthir loudly telling a clerk that they hadn’t charged anything to room service, thanks, given that they hadn’t even made it into their fucking room yet – _there’s no need to take that tone, sir_ – and Telchar’s good-natured chuckle that lasted until she realized she had left her growler cozy on the elevator. It was a long day and they were both relieved when the door to the room finally clicked open as Caranthir grumbled at the ' _bout time_  fucking functional keycard.

It was then that they both looked at the bed, and noted that there was only one of it.

There was a pause.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” said Caranthir, knowing it was the noble thing to do and already resenting it.

“That’s noble of you,” said Telchar, straight-faced.  

“Well, it would suck for you to have to do it. Cricked neck and sore back, and that’s after a day of being on your feet all day at the convention and a bad night’s sleep ahead of another long day – ” Caranthir stared grimly at the floor. “Yeah, no worries.”

“You’re a giver,” said Telchar cheerfully. “You could also sleep in the armchair.”

“Right.”

Telchar bent to set her bag on the floor, and Caranthir glanced down at her. He sometimes forgot how much taller he was than she, given that there was nothing about her personality or presence that felt small. But when she knelt to her bag, he was struck by the difference between them and unexpectedly distracted by it. Her hair fell forward to reveal the clasp of a heavy silver chain at the nape of her neck, and he took a step back to resist the urge to reach out and stroke it.

Shaking his head to get rid of the impulse, he said, “There’s something in your hair.”

Telchar straightened up, a hand rising to her head. “Are we talking something like a piece of my lunch or something like a spider? How loud should I be cussing?”

“It’s just a bit of paper.” Caranthir reached out and delicately plucked it from a curl of hair. “From that confetti canon I think.”

Telchar snorted, dropping her hand before their fingers could touch. “Talk about undignified ways to celebrate a well-brewed IPA. In my day – ”

“What, the ancient days of 2011?”

“ – in my day, brewers celebrated their accomplishments more decorously.” She brushed a hand over her head, dislodging more confetti, and Caranthir caught it. “By getting genteelly drunk and quietly passing out.”

“That sounds more my speed,” said Caranthir. “Hold still.” He arrested Telchar from turning with a hand on her shoulder, looking intently at the loops of hair falling over her ear. He picked out a couple more pieces of paper, too focused to notice that his fingertips were brushing Telchar’s ear until he looked down and noticed she was watching him with very dark, very interested eyes.

He dropped his hands immediately. “Uh. There’s more in there. You might wanna deal with it yourself.”

Telchar watched him another second and Caranthir’s heart, undirected by him, began to beat very fast. Then she looked away to make a face in the mirror and Caranthir stared down at his chest in suspicion, hoping it would get itself under control.

Telchar dragged a hand through her hair, partially undone braids making her curly hair even wilder. More confetti fell out, and she made a sound of resignation. “Okay, I’m just going to jump in the shower,” she said. “I smell like brewer’s yeast anyway.”

“I like brewer’s yeast,” said Caranthir inconsequentially.

“Sure, it’s good stuff.” Telchar grinned. “Great source of protein.”

For some reason Caranthir blushed, not that it ever took much, and Telchar started unbuttoning her pants. Caranthir turned away so fast he almost knocked over a lamp, and by the time he dared look back the bathroom door was closed and there was the sound of running water.

He sat perfectly still on the edge of the bed, and refused point blank to think about the woman who was essentially his boss getting wet and naked on the other side of the door. He was not thinking about his – okay, so technically she was his employer, he was contracted, not a salaried employee, and Azaghâl was the one who signed half his checks – his sort of employer naked and standing in the water, rivulets running over her –

– her tattoo, the dark lines of the dragon over her collarbone, the drops of water sliding lower, her hands –

He was _not_ going to get hard thinking about Telchar showering, he told himself, even as he registered that it was too late.

He stared grimly into the middle distance and judged himself, his still thundering heart, and his dick.

See, the really deviant thing to do, he thought, the really deviant thing would be to act on this. That would make him the irredeemable worst. To do something like press a palm to the growing bulge between his legs, even if only to abate the pressure for just a second –

His fingers twitched.

Hell.

Honestly, he realized, if he was going to jerk off at all this weekend, now would be the time. When else would be appropriate? He’d have no time to himself, no privacy; for god’s sake, they were sharing a room. Telchar was as far from him as she was going to be this weekend, and if he wanted to have a quick bit of time to himself, when better than now?

It was practically the most respectful thing to do.

His pants, being the pants of an irredeemable deviant, were already unzipped. This was much better, he thought, biting his lip, than doing this while she was asleep in the same room as him and he was trying to get one off without making any noise in the armchair or wherever the hell he was going to be sleeping. It would especially be respectful if this was _completely_ unrelated to her, since fantasizing about one’s bo– employer, naked in the shower was probably disrespectful, so he should –

– think of something else.

He tried, for a moment, but his fantasy bank was a minefield. Haleth flickered briefly to mind, but he pushed her away resolutely. It had grown more and more difficult to think about her in that way, something that both surprised and pleased him but did not in this case help. He ended up thinking of Finrod instead. Memories of semi-public hookups and Finrod’s breath in his ear, Finrod’s hand down his pants, and –

Curufin, looking judgmental.

Caranthir grimaced. _That_ wasn’t going to work. Fantasizing about Finrod was also far less reliable these days, given that it kept bringing up associated images of his younger brother, a side effect that was about as erotic as trying to get off with the dog watching.

Desperately he rifled through his imagination for other images, other fantasies, something from porn, he had to have consumed _something_ that would suit. He had to land on something other than thoughts of what would happen if he got in the shower with Telchar; if he stepped up behind her and slid his hands down her glistening torso and held her by the hips and bent down to press his lips to her shoulder and neck and god, to lick that tattoo, to have her tilt her head back on his shoulder and moan, to –

The water was shut off.

Caranthir zipped up so fast he nearly performed an inadvertent late in life circumcision.

“Water pressure’s pretty decent,” said Telchar, emerging. “Well, after I gave the faucet a good whack, anyway. Should we turn the AC on? You look warm.”

"Nguh," said Caranthir noncommittally.

 

After she’d toweled off and gotten into her pajamas – an overlarge shirt and not much else – Telchar offered Caranthir the shower. He refused. He considered that it might be another good option for getting himself off without being seen, but he was now so embarrassed and so convinced that Telchar would suspect that he didn’t think he could take his clothes off without giving himself away.

He had to take his clothes off anyway, to change for bed, but he did it in the closet.

The armchair wasn’t so horribly uncomfortable, as it transpired. He settled down in it and pulled the spare blanket up to his chin. Telchar clicked out the light and Caranthir tried to figure out the best way to sleep sitting up. He wriggled, trying to get his legs in the right position, and the chair squeaked. He stilled and then shifted again to see if there was a recline function, and the chair creaked, loudly now. He was trying to move without it making noise, and failing, when Telchar’s voice cut through the darkness, sounding amused.

“Lots of rhythmic creaking coming from over there, Caranthir, should I be worried?”

Caranthir blushed furiously, so mortified that he felt sure his cheeks were glowing in the dark.

“I’m just trying to get comfortable,” he said stiffly. “The fucking – the chair squeaks.”

“Yeah, sounds like it.”

Caranthir tried to gather the blanket around himself, and the chair creaked so loudly that it might have been mocking him.

Telchar laughed. “This is painful. Look, the bed is vast, come share it.”

“No,” said Caranthir at once.

“You don’t have to,” Telchar said. “But you’d be more comfortable and I promise you won’t be compromising my chastity.”

Caranthir blushed again, but just then the chair creaked like it was going to give way and he got to his feet hastily.

“Not that I have much chastity left anyway,” added Telchar as Caranthir slunk over to the bed, and he almost couldn’t bring himself to get in next to her.

She gave him a respectful amount of space and after a stilted exchange of ‘Goodnight, then’s, he felt her turn over and heard her breathing deepen. He lay very still. Despite the vastness of the bed, it was the closest he’d ever been to Telchar, and he could picture with crystal clarity the thinness of her night shirt. He recollected, with equal clarity, that the last person he had shared a bed with was Haleth, and then he wished he hadn’t.

 _“Damnit, Fëanorion,_ ” he could hear her saying in his head. _“If I wake up to your morning wood one more time…”_

He squeezed his eyes shut, but his body seemed to have taken the memory as a hint and began to rise to the occasion, not that it needed much urging. The remembered humiliation, along with the embarrassment of nearly being caught by Telchar earlier, did not seem to be doing anything to dampen his enthusiasm. He was hyper conscious of Telchar’s warmth, the smell of her skin and hair, the fact that forty minutes before he’d had his hand on his cock and his eyes closed, imagining her naked, and now she was one foot away and there was nothing between them but her nightshirt and _he was going to die before the night was out_ , wasn’t he _._

He lay perfectly still and tried to will himself to death to speed the process. The wild idiot part of him, the part that was evidently controlling his dick, told him enthusiastically that he should try the masturbation again. Telchar was asleep and there would be no harm done and it would help this weird insomnia thing he was having, right?

Then he contemplated throwing himself out the window.

“Caranthir,” said Telchar softly in the darkness, and Caranthir jerked.

Alarmed and guilt-ridden, he was only half sure the voice was actually coming from next to him and wasn’t actually the voice of his conscience or his imagination run amok. He was trying to sort this out when she said his name again.

“Caranthir,” she said, and turned over on her side, the blankets moving over them both. She was facing him now, and close enough that he could feel her breath on his upper arm. “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice coming out low and hoarse and deeply embarrassing, and Telchar must have thought it sounded weird too, because she made an odd movement. Like a suppressed laugh, he thought.

“Are you having trouble sleeping?”

She sounded oddly hesitant, and it was so out of character that he instinctively turned over to look at her. This put them face to face, Caranthir’s knees bumping up against hers, and now her breath was on his face – his lips – rather than his arm.

“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “A little.”

“I always stay up too late at these things,” Telchar said, and Caranthir nodded mechanically, bringing their heads even closer together.

“I – yeah, I mean, it’s another long day tomorrow. We should – ”

Telchar let out a sigh and whispered something Caranthir couldn’t make out.

“What?” Caranthir leaned forward, trying to hear her, and she slid a hand around the back of his head. There was a moment of brushing noses, bumping foreheads, and then her lips were closing on his, and it was awkward and baffling and –

– perfect.

He let out a breath that came louder than he’d expected, a soft moan in the darkness – embarrassing, too revealing. But Telchar made that movement again, a repressed shiver like she was holding something back, and her lips parted on his. He reached out, needing to feel her, and touched her waist. She shuddered in his arms and then pressed fiercely close, and Caranthir felt her tongue against his lips.

Caranthir had discovered that there was always a moment during these kind of encounters when all of his self doubt and confusion and fear was replaced by a heady certainty, a confidence that must have been driven by the rush of blood and the surge of adrenalin. It hit him now, and he stopped questioning anything except her heat, her immediacy, her taste. He wrapped both arms around Telchar’s firm waist, pulling her closer and half on top of him, her legs ending up straddling his thigh. He broke their kiss to yield to the temptation he’d had practically since they first met and lowered his mouth to her collarbones. He ran his tongue hungrily over the tattoo he couldn’t see in the darkness but knew was there.

“Goddamn, Fëanorion,” whispered Telchar. “I knew you’d be good.”

A distant, surprised voice in the back of Caranthir’s head said, _Really_? in shocked tones, but the part of him now in charge, the part guided by fierce desire and the thrill of sudden knowledge, just growled and nipped at the hollow of Telchar’s throat.

“Not much of a talker, are you?” Telchar’s voice sounded low and approving though, and Caranthir sought her lips again.

She rolled fully on top of him, straddling his waist. His hands immediately went to the hem of her shirt where it was riding up over her thighs, and then stopped. He raised his eyes to her questioningly, and she shook her hair back from her face, heavy dark curls falling down her back and grinned, the broad, confident smile that always stopped him dead.

“Don’t let me stop you.”

He sat up and pushed her shirt up and over her head, wrapping his arms around her bare waist almost as soon as she was free of it. He nuzzled her collarbones again, and his hands trailed over her hardening nipples, over the faint scars beneath her breasts, over the solid muscles of her waist, and –

He gave a soft moan of longing.

“You have another _tattoo_.”

This one splayed wide across her ribcage and arced down over her hips. It was too dark for him to make out the details, but it was quite clearly imperative that he taste it. He looked up at her once, inquiringly, and she nodded, her breath coming fast. He lifted her up slightly so he could bend his head to her torso and press his mouth to her skin.

“You’ve got a thing for ink, do you?” Her fingers carded through his hair.

Apparently, Caranthir thought. He wondered if he’d always had it, dormant until now, or if it was Telchar specific.

“You’ve got a thing for not talking, do you?” Telchar sounded amused as well as curious, and Caranthir realized that he hadn’t actually responded to her. He raised his head and looked up at her, and she shivered in his arms again.

“You’re really hot,” he said hoarsely. “Did you do it on purpose?”

“Do what on purpose?”

“The one bed thing.”

Telchar shook with laughter. “I’m not _that_ devious.”

Caranthir shrugged, ready to accept her answer at face value, but Telchar appeared to still be thinking. “I still can’t figure the mistake. I definitely booked a room with two queen beds. Maybe the hotel fucked up serendipitously.” She was still running her fingers through his hair, a lazy caress that was making him wild for more. “I mean, given how much I’ve been looking for an excuse to get ahold of you…”

“Really?” This time Caranthir said it aloud, shocked tone and all.

“It’s pretty sexy, being wanted by you.”

So she had known all along about his stupid crush. Caranthir fumbled for embarrassment again, but instead found only glee. She was naked on top of him; how many crushes, much less his crushes, turned out that way? He realized she was still musing about the room and bed issue, and he tried to draw himself away from her breasts enough to listen to her.

“I mean seriously, it couldn’t have worked out better if – ” She froze, and Caranthir froze along with her.

“What?” he said, after a long moment when Telchar still didn’t move. “Uh. Are you – ”

Telchar was muttering something, and he tried to make it out. It sounded like threats, and he wondered if he should be retreating. Cursing, mostly naked women probably boded poorly. She still felt awfully good in his lap though, so maybe it was worth the risk. Then he caught one word, and his blood went cold.

“Did you say ‘Lalwen’?”

Dread flooded him. It was happening _again._ Once again, he was with someone who was more interested in his aunt than in him. Once again Lalwen was foiling all his hopes and desires, inverting everything he had longed for… Maybe he could work with this, though. Maybe Telchar was only hooking up with him because… _because_ he was Lalwen’s nephew? They didn’t even look alike, there were some very obvious differences, but he could play along, he could pretend –

“I’m gonna kill that crafty bitch,” Telchar muttered, and then noticed Caranthir’s agony. “What wrong, honey?”

“Nothing,” said Caranthir faintly. “Only if you say you’re in love with her too – ”

“What? Jesus, no.” She took his face between her hands and pressed her thumbs to his lips in a surprisingly comforting way. “I just realized something, that’s all. Don’t worry, though, I’ll take care of it. No one gets away with manipulating me without living to regret it.”

Caranthir tried to figure out if this meant he was going to get laid or not, but decided the odds were in his favor by the way Telchar was busily working his boxers off.

“She thought she was clever, did she? Thought I wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to have sex with you, eh?” Telchar muttered. “Oh ho, I’ll show her. What I am going to do – lay back, gorgeous – is _have sex with you._ ”

 

* * *

 

The note appeared in Lalwen’s mailbox later that week.

 _Dear Lalwen_ , it read. _You are not 50% as smart or sneaky as you think you are. You’d better run, girl, because I am going to kick your ass for manipulation of certain hotel circumstances. DON’T MESS WITH MY RESERVATIONS EVER AGAIN and get that smug look off your face, because you don’t know me as well as you think you do._

_But your nephew is damn good in bed._

_Think I’ll keep him._

_xx_

_Telchar_

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Title from Emily Dickinson.  
>  _I taste a liquor never brewed –  
>  From Tankards scooped in Pearl –  
> Not all the Frankfort Berries  
> Yield such an Alcohol!_


End file.
